


31 Days

by parisian_girl



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Fluff, One Shot Collection, Romance, some smut too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-02 02:19:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 32
Words: 14,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17255786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parisian_girl/pseuds/parisian_girl
Summary: 31 days of January, 31 unrelated Phrack one-shots, all 500 words or less. My challenge to myself as a kind of cheer-myself-up, banish-the-winter-blues thing (and not just an excuse to write fluff, flirting and smut. Honestly). Happy New Year, everyone!





	1. A Certain Kind of Appetite

**Author's Note:**

> So, this slightly crazy idea came out of a need to cheer myself up through a long December of work, terrible weather and general winter blues - and what better way to do that than a binge watch of MFMM followed by a January full of Phrack?! There will (hopefully) be 31 chapters to this, one for each day of January, all one shots and mostly unrelated, and all 500 words or less - I'm being strict on the 500 words ;). Some are established Phrack, some aren't, and I'm using it as a way of experimenting a little with different writing styles and topics that I wouldn't normally touch...so a whole random collection of stuff, really. I do still have quite a few left to write, though, so if one day all I post is "Jack has no ideas, and for once Phryne doesn't either", don't be surprised!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has encouraged this and supplied me with prompts on Tumblr and Instagram :) :). If a chapter came out of a prompt, I'll make it clear in the notes. 
> 
> Completely un-betaed, so all mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Enjoy!

**_For TorieGirl, who reminded me that Phrack and stakeouts go together like…well, whatever your favourite combo is ;)._ **

 

All was quiet.

He had heard the church bell toll for midnight not long ago, and a hush had settled over the street. The few lights that were still on had flickered before being extinguished, the last drunk had wound his way home from the pub. It seemed as if they were the only people breathing in the still air, and he breathed it deep through the open car window. Underneath the grime and the slum, he could detect the first delicate fragrances of spring. 

He was very aware of her, sat beside him in the passenger seat. Her scent, her warmth, her presence. They had sat like this for two hours now, not touching and barely speaking a word. He wondered which of them would be the first to break.

He knew she was thinking the same. Of course she was. A glance out of the corner of his eye saw her staring straight ahead, a tiny smirk curving her mouth. His office was no longer off limits, so why should a police car be any different? He had to admit, the idea thrilled him just a tiny bit. But he was a professional. He wanted these guys caught. And they weren’t the only ones watching and waiting.

“Did Dot make Hugh some sandwiches? Looks like we might be here a while.”

It was a ridiculous comment to make, but he had to break the silence somehow. His thoughts were starting to wander to some very unprofessional places. Her legs, clad in black trousers that clung and hung in all the right places. Her jaunty black hat that almost pleaded with him to take it off and ruffle the hair underneath. Her red lipstick…

“Yes.” The smirk grew wider, and he knew he deserved it. “Are you getting hungry, Jack?”

He swallowed. “Kind of.”

“Cottage pie?” Her voice was an innocent purr. “I brought forks this time.”

“Shame.” He said it before he could stop himself, and she chuckled. 

“Not necessarily.”

His throat felt dry. How could he forget the last time she had spoon-fed him something? Granted, that had been cake and not cottage pie, but still. The principle was the same, wasn’t it?

“Phryne…” His voice held a warning note as she leaned over his lap, and she smiled sweetly up at him.

“The picnic hamper, Jack. It’s between your feet.”

Dammit, she was right. And he only had himself to blame. He had put it there when they parked up, knowing that come 2am his stomach would be growling but he wouldn’t want to draw attention by getting things out from the back seat. And now she was right. There.

He didn’t know whether to be relieved or frustrated when, as her fingers reached for his belt and not for the hamper, he saw a movement on the street.

“Phryne.”

She knew, and slowly sat up.

“Shame.” She echoed his sentiments back to him in a whisper. “I was looking forward to that pie.”


	2. Tender

She had known he would be tender.

She had seen it in his eyes. Deep, fathomless, blue. Impenetrable, sometimes. They were the mask of a professional, a policeman, an ex-soldier. A divorced man who bore a burden of guilt too heavy for one person’s shoulders. But on rare occasions she had seen them dance, warm and inviting like waves in the sunshine. She had seen them smile and laugh even when his lips didn’t move. She had caught them unawares, full of desire and want before he ever touched her. And she had known. 

It was his hands, though, that really gave it away. Large and strong. She knew some of what those hands had done, however unwillingly; it was rare these days to find a man whose hands hadn’t touched death. But they were the same fingers she had seen caressing the soil of his garden, coaxing even the most reluctant flower to bloom; the same hands that she thought must gently knead bread and mix biscuit dough in the privacy of his kitchen, because who else would keep his not-so-secret stash topped up? She had seen those hands hold together those who were broken and comfort those who needed it. She had seen them fire a gun, yes, but it was strange how that was never what she remembered.

She had fantasised about his hands almost more than anything else. With every touch, however light or brief, her body learned something new, until she had a bank of memories with which to make up her own stories. As his touches lingered, so she craved more. Her skin had ached to know what those hands felt like without the filter of clothes. 

She had never known what word to use to describe them, until now.


	3. That's What A Lady Does

“Damn!”

His voice echoed down the alleyway, the well-aimed kick at the garage door bouncing after it. He winced. His big toe had taken almost the full force of his uncharacteristic burst of temper and, of course, the metal door remained firmly shut. He looked at the lock longingly. If only…

“Jack.” Phryne’s voice was amused, chiding. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“The key?” He turned with a shrug of his shoulders, only to be faced with bare leg. A silk stocking. A lace garter. A knife.

“You don’t need a pin to pick locks, Jack, a knife will do the job just as well”. She had already tugged it free and let her skirt fall, her nimble fingers going to work on the rusty lock. Yet again, he felt as if she’d somehow left him about ten paces behind, and he momentarily closed his eyes.

Of course she had a knife in her underwear.

Of course she could use it to break in.

What had he been thinking?

“Why on earth do you keep it…” He paused, for some reason unwilling to draw attention to the fact that she had just flashed him her thigh.

“In my garter?’ She wiggled the knife in the lock, her brow furrowed in concentration, and he heard a promising scrape and click. “Where else do you suggest I keep it?”

“I don’t know, perhaps in your handbag?”

“No room.” She turned triumphantly as the lock gave way. “My gun’s in there. Shall we?”

She held open the garage door and he followed her in, the small shake of his head the only indication of the tiny whirlwind that he felt had just passed him by. She had this effect on him regularly, he was realising, and he was always left with a lingering sense of grudging admiration, resignation, longing and desire.

Perhaps now was the time to turn the tables.

“Miss Fisher.” She turned from where she was examining several large crates stacked in one corner, and he gestured to the knife. “May I?”

She nodded, preoccupied, and held out the knife handle-first. It was only when he was right next to her, barely an inch between them, and his hand was reaching down for the bottom of her skirt did she look up.

“Jack…?”

Her eyes were wide, he noted with satisfaction. Wide with surprise, yes, and a playful delight at this new development, but also raw lust, and the same longing and desire that he saw in himself. 

“Never leave a weapon unguarded, Miss Fisher.” He lifted her skirt and slipped the knife back where it came from, forcing his own reaction down as he saw her swallow, her eyes never leaving his, but then he let the fabric drop. He stepped back, a smirk playing around the corner of his mouth as she breathed out heavily. He felt it himself, but there was time. He gestured to the crates. For now, he would enjoy playing her game.

“Shall we?”


	4. Unspoken

The knock at the door came at 2:34am, so softly that she would never have heard it had she not been awake. She had dozed, lulled by the still-crackling fire and the whisky glowing golden in her glass, but she had not properly slept. She had wondered if he would come. For weeks now she had been sustained by that faintly flickering hope that he would, but she had promised herself tonight was the last night. She wouldn’t hope any longer.

His face was half-hidden in the shadow, the glow of the porch light not quite catching his eyes. Usually, she relied on his eyes. She had learned them like another language, learned that they gave her everything that his lips could not, and she had known. Of course she had known. 

“I’m sorry it’s so late.”

“It’s okay. I was awake.”

“I saw the light.” Of course he had, otherwise he wouldn’t have knocked at all. “I had something I needed to say.”

What else, she wondered, was there to say? But she could feel the little flame in her gut spark. Perhaps…

“Something that needed a trip right across town in the middle of the night?”

“Yes”. He took a step forward, removing his hat.

“Something that couldn’t wait?” She met him halfway, the silk of her pyjamas brushing against his coat. She couldn’t help it. She had always needed to be close to him, and now, when she looked up, she could see his eyes. 

The language hadn’t changed. In the weeks apart that had felt like years, she hadn’t lost the syntax, could still see the nuances written between every line, and she knew what he had come for even before his lips met hers. She wondered what had told him that she would be willing, despite her last words to him. Her eyes? Her body? It didn’t matter. She had missed him, softly and fiercely and every way in between, and now she was humming with a pleasure, a desperate need, and a recognition that however they had been spoken, their silent words had been the same. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this set vaguely after the season 2 episode 'Blood at the Wheel", but you can put it wherever you like ;).


	5. One Set of Footprints

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For whopooh, and the word prompt "Ameliorate" :).

**_Ameliorate - to make (something bad or unsatisfactory) better._ **

 

Jack could pinpoint the exact moment Phryne’s shoes had started to hurt. She had not said anything, hadn’t even sat down, but he could tell. Her smile had taken on a slightly pinched quality that he suspected mirrored her poor toes, and she shifted and shuffled as she stood. The real giveaway, though, was her refusal to dance. Phryne Fisher was never genuinely too tired to dance.

Her sigh of relief as she climbed into the cab at the end of the evening had been quiet but palpable, and now as they drew up alongside Wardlow, an inviting glow still peeking around the parlour curtains, he reached over and took her hand.

“Why don’t you just take them off?”

“I’m fine.”

He shook his head, not knowing whether his smile was one of mirth or frustration. He knew why. Expensive Italian leather apparently took longer to wear in than one would expect, but she would never admit to anyone that perhaps wearing them for the first time tonight had not been the best idea. And she wouldn’t even take them off to walk up to her own front door.

Sometimes, he thought, she could be a real idiot. A beautiful one, and a very well dressed one, but an idiot nonetheless.

“Come here, then.”

“What?”

He jogged around, opened her door, thanked Bert, gestured for her to get out. “Come here.”

She climbed out of the car, clutching her purse and wrap in one hand, and before she could protest he had scooped her up into his arms. Her squeal of surprise turned to laughter as he turned to carry her through the gate, leaving behind Bert’s chuckle, the thud of the cab door closing, the low hum of the engine as he drove off down the street.

“Better?” He looked at her, so close and perfect in his arms. Her smile had melted into an expression of pure bliss, her eyes closed and her head leaning on his shoulder, and he felt her wiggle her feet.

“Much better.” She snuggled against him. “Just knock. Mr Butler must still be up.”

And he was, bless him, in a red house coat and clutching a cup of tea. He didn’t look at all surprised to see his Miss Fisher being carried over her own threshold; Jack rather thought, in the low light, that he could see the older man’s eyes twinkling.

“Tea, Miss? Or straight to bed?”

“Bed, Mr B.” Phryne’s yawn was huge. ‘Straight to bed.”

He carried her up the stairs as well, leaving Mr Butler to turn off the lamps and lock the door. She was tired now. Her body felt warm and heavy with sleep, and he went slowly, holding her close. It was moments like this he had learned to savour almost above all others.

“Jack?” Her dreamy whisper brushed against his neck as they reached her boudoir. “Don’t ever put me down.”

“No, love.” He nudged open the door with his foot. “I won’t.”


	6. Queenscliff

He awoke in the middle of the night, to a stillness that was not his own house. Slipping from sleep and dreaming - had he been dreaming? if so, it had been good - he opened his eyes a fraction, trying to make sense of the play of light and dark and shadow that surrounded him, trying to make it fit the snapshots of his memory from the night before. Car…Queenscliff…dinner…

Phryne.

He closed his eyes again, before opening them and turning his head. He half expected her not to be there, but she was, and he could feel her now. The warmth of her body in the bed, the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, a slight movement as she dreamed. She hadn’t asked him to come up here. She hadn’t asked for his help, but he had been worried. And besides, didn’t it always start with a case? It just hadn’t ended this way before.

It had been carnal, so unlike what he had ever allowed himself to imagine, and he closed his eyes against the sensual onslaught of the recollections that flooded his body. He could still see her, trailing a hand down his shirt, over his chest, her face full of a curious wonder as he stood there and finally let her do it. He remembered how her expression had changed as she reached his belt, how her brow had furrowed and her mouth had pursed into a little ‘o’ of arousal and desire, and his cock twitched as he remembered her frantic scrabbling, his sudden desperate  need, the tumble towards the bed. It had only been afterwards, when she had shattered twice and he had come with a blinding intensity that made the rest of the world disappear, that he had realised they hadn’t spoken. They hadn’t kissed. They had barely even undressed. 

She was awake now too, propped up on one elbow, sleepy dark eyes looking down at him silently. He wondered if he should have left - he had his own hotel room, after all. He wondered what she thought of him. He wondered what he thought of himself. He wondered if she would ask him to go.

“Jack?’

He looked up at her, her whisper soft on his cheek. 

“Kiss me.”


	7. A Different Kind of Truce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For @ullesparre on Instagram, and the prompt "Perhaps....just the one..." :).

“Miss…”

Phryne waved to Hugh as she breezed past the station reception desk, ignoring his frantic gesturing and attempts to stop her reaching Jack’s office. She knew exactly what the problem was. In fact, it was the very problem she had come to solve.

“Good morning, Jack.” She shut the door behind her, not quite in Hugh’s face but very nearly, and deposited a large wicker picnic hamper on the desk. Jack, though, barely glanced up from his paperwork. “I brought lunch.”

“So I see, Miss Fisher.”

“Gratin. Amongst other things.”

“Well, you’ll have to thank Mr Butler for the effort, but I really am too busy. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

But Phryne had no intention of doing anything of the sort. Instead, she took off her hat and coat and perched on the corner of his desk next to the hamper. She had taken great care with the cream trousers and peach blouse, the silver earrings that scraped her shoulders, the slight hint of smoke around her eyes. Just enough, not too much. It was always better to play it safe when dressing for an apology.

“Jack…” She reached out a hand and neatly closed the folder he was reading. “I’m sorry. Truly I am. I should have told you.”

“Yes, you should have.” Jack looked both exasperated and resigned as he reached for the folder and flipped it open again, although she noticed not to the same page as before. “It was dangerous. Reckless.”

And therein, she thought, lay the problem. He had been scared for her, and he cared for her too much to be scared, even when she considered his concern to be unnecessary. This new, still slightly fragile relationship of theirs wasn’t sure what to do with the conflict.

“But I’m still here, Jack.” She rummaged around in the hamper, and emerged clutching a small package wrapped in brown paper. “I can’t promise it won’t happen again -“ Jack snorted in derision - “but I am sorry.”

His stomach grumbled as she unwrapped the parcel for him, wafting it enticingly under his nose. Ham, cheese, and mustard pickle sandwiches. She had never thought of them as a suitable peace offering before.

“Can you promise to tell me next time? Before you go charging in like a freight train?”

“A charming freight train, and a very careful one.” Phryne did her best to look indignant. “But yes. I promise. Now, are you going to eat these or should I give them to Hugh?”

His hand shot out faster than she could move the package out of his reach, and she smirked. It took a moment but eventually he returned her smile, his mouth already full, and he pointed at the second sandwich.

“Can’t eat them all myself.”

She leaned over to kiss him, recognising the gesture for what it was. Peace offerings worked both ways. “Perhaps. Just the one.”

She was hungry too. And besides, she had grown rather fond of ham, cheese, and mustard pickle sandwiches.


	8. Chanel No. 5

He lay back on the bed, his shirt collar open and his feet bare. There was plenty of time for the tie, the jacket, the last comb of pomade. These evenings out were never his favourite, although he had learned to tolerate them and even, sometimes, to enjoy them. His reward was this; the quiet hour beforehand, when Phryne would be getting ready and he would lie there and watch her. It was a beautiful, sensual privilege, and he never wasted a second.

She was there now, her eyes meeting his in the mirror as she slowly brushed her hair. Her makeup was in place save for the red lipstick she would apply just before they left. Experience had taught them both that putting it on sooner was a waste; he had kissed it off more often than he had left it intact. Her dress lay ready on her side of the bed, and he reached out a hand to finger it lightly. She had gone for black tonight, lace and silk, delicate and clingy and with just a hint of darkness. She would, he knew, look sensational.

He had never interfered with her preparations before, but tonight he needed to touch her.

She had put down the brush by the time he reached her, his steps across the bedroom slow and unhurried, and had picked up her perfume bottle instead. Wordlessly, he stood behind her and took it from her fingers. The glass was cool, the golden liquid inside sparkling in the low light. It wasn’t one that he had seen on her dressing table before. Hints of jasmine, orange blossom, sandalwood, and something else that he couldn’t define flooded his senses as he gently pulled the stopper from the bottle and dabbed some onto his finger. 

“Here?’

He leaned down, pressing his lips to her neck just below her ear, and she nodded, tilting her head and closing her eyes in pleasure. His finger followed his lips, tracing the line of the kiss with the scent, and they both breathed deeply as he repeated it on the other side. 

“And here?”

His fingers had travelled to the base of her throat, the dip between her collarbones where he loved to lick and nestle his lips, and she nodded again, a little hum of desire escaping her as he touched another drop onto her skin.

“Here?”

He parted the oriental-style robe she was wearing, stroking the perfume between her breasts, not waiting for her approval. Her eyes were heavy and dark, searching out his in the mirror.

“Where else?”

His voice was a low rumble in his chest. He knew where else. He had watched her do it. He had tasted it on his tongue as he kissed his way up her thighs, and she simply nodded. She had told him once that she applied perfume wherever she wanted to be kissed; it had taken him a while, then, to catch her meaning.

He knew much better now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chanel No. 5 was first created in 1921, although it was distributed very exclusively and wasn't "mass-marketed" until about 1925. I figure Phryne would have got her hands on some by now ;).


	9. Southern Cross

It was always beautiful, but especially on a night like tonight. Not quite summer, but beyond spring, the air warm and soft with the scent of the peach tree that draped itself over the wall, and the darkness as deep and comforting as it ever got in the city. He had described it to her in letters, or had tried to; how he had sat out here, night after night, searching for it like some kind of talisman, something that he could give her that she wouldn’t have on her travels. Something that he could drop into words to help her find her way home. A guide for himself, too, to the landscape of his own heart in the wake of her departure; it wasn’t familiar territory. Even Rosie had never felt anything like this.

He had thought about building himself a bench, he sat out here so often. He had never been up to much with that kind of work, but the idea had been attractive; a monument, of sorts, to his patience, each sculpted piece of wood a star. But he had never begun. Winter had arrived, with cold winds and rain, and he had sat in his front room instead. He had always faced the direction he knew it would be. Then work had interfered. Week after week he had thought about it, and put it off, and then finally the day had come. She was home, and suddenly he didn’t need it any more. 

“It’s beautiful.”

He turned his head on the blanket that he had carefully laid out for them on the grass. Her eyes gazed straight upwards, a smile of childlike wonder playing about her lips. He felt her body shift against his. She meant the stars, of course, of the Southern Cross that had guided her home, but he no longer needed to search for them. Their fingers found each other, and he nodded.

“It is.”


	10. Phryne's Letter

It was the first letter from her he had received. For a while, he hadn’t even opened it; instead, his fingers had traced the lines of his name on the envelope, the flowing script so familiar that it seemed to bring her there to him. Her voice, her laughter, her warmth. But then he had sliced it open, more carefully than he had ever opened anything in his life, and begun to read.

_Dear Jack,_

_I’ve started this letter so many times, and to start “Dear Jack” seems pathetic, somehow, but you’ll have to forgive me because I still can’t think of anything better. Or rather, I can think of lots of better ways, but none suitable for a letter that I assume will be read in the station (Dot says you’re working a lot…and I’ll come back to that later). In fact, there’s a lot that I could write in this letter, but won’t. I’ve been thinking about you every minute, Jack, and I have to admit that I’m not quite ready to commit those fantasies to paper just yet. Forgive me?_

_Thee is one thing, though, that I want - no, need - to say, and again you might have to forgive me, this time for any clumsy words or cluttered meanderings. I’m not particularly good at pinning feelings down to words._

_Your kiss, Jack…our kiss…it sparked something in me I didn’t know was there. A fire, of sorts, thrilling and exciting and yet comforting and so_ right _at the same time. I felt safe and scared all at once. Safe because it was you, Jack, and I was finally home, but scared because of what it might mean._

_Darling Jack…I’m not easy. I’m sure you think you know that, but do you? Really? I can be selfish. Stubborn. I’ve said before that I cannot change, and I meant it. I can be headstrong, and wild, and out of control (or so my Aunt Prudence would say). And now I’m torn in two, Jack, because I so desperately want to ask you to handle all of that. I want to ask you to bear with me at my worst so that I can give you my best, and yet I recognise what an impossible request that is._

_When I asked you to come after me, I meant that too. Another impossible request, I know. But all I want is to kiss you again._

_Please take care of yourself, Jack. Don’t work too hard, and let Dot look after you. At least until I’m home._

_Your Honourable (in deed, at least, although not so much in mind),_

_Phryne_

He sat there, office door locked (because of course she was right, where else would he be?) reading and reading again, letting his heart and mind shatter and come back together with every word, finally allowing himself to believe it. 

It was dark when he finally felt able to pick up his pen and begin to write.


	11. Jack's Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For TorieGirl, and the prompt "Did you mean it?"

“Phryne!”

Her father’s voice echoed up the stairs, shattering the few moments of peace she had managed to snatch in between breakfast and…what was it today? Some friend of her mother’s that she was required to help entertain. She had desperately wanted to spend those moments re-reading his letter. She had read it so often in the weeks since it had arrived that she knew it off by heart, but there was something about the paper, the ink, the writing that was pure _Jack_ , and she craved it like a drug. 

“Just a minute.” She held it in her hand, closed her eyes and breathed. Stupid, she knew. It was her imagination that filled the air around her with his scent. Wood spice and pomade and something else that she had never been able to pin down.

_Dear Phryne,_

_Like you, I’ve started this letter many times, and there’s so much I want to say to you, and to ask you. The banal questions of how you are, how your journey was (although I can well imagine!), how your parents are faring. I would ask you to describe London for me, as it’s many years since I was there, at the end of the war, and all I remember is grey smog. All those questions have crossed my mind as I read your letter, but they can wait._

_There is only one that I need you to answer, and that is -_

“Phryne!”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She re-folded the letter, her fingers sharp and irritable, and, after tucking it safely back into her bureau, opened the door of her bedroom. “What is it, Father?”

“Package for you.”

She wrinkled her brow, before remembering that it was Ashford’s morning off. “Well, can’t you just sign for it?”

“No!” He sounded annoyed at the very idea. “Just come down here, will you? Please?”

She rolled her eyes as she descended the stairs. A package…she couldn’t think that she had ordered anything, but then again she had done a lot of shopping. It was easy to lose track. Mentally scanning her wardrobe, comparing the dresses to trips down Oxford Street with her mother, she swung into the hallway and -

“Hello, Phryne.”

She stood there, stunned into silence. His fingers were twirling his hat nervously, the same hat that she had bought him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her father smirk and slip quietly into the parlour - at least he had the decency to give them some privacy, and she would take him to task later - a _package?_ \- but that scent was filling her. Wood spice and pomade and _Jack._ He was here.

She had never answered his question.

‘I meant it.” She swallowed, reaching out for him, needing desperately to know he was real and not knowing what else there was to say. She ached for him.“Every word.”

“I know.” He took her hand. “That’s why I came.”


	12. Give Me My Sin Again

He could still hear the music.

It was dulled, as if coming from behind a thick velvet curtain, but it still held him. Held _them_ , together, breath coming as fast as the dance, lips and hands roaming with abandon. Her lips were so soft. Such a delicious contrast to the hard and fast rhythm her hips were beginning to beat against his body. He could feel her, sense her, imagine her. All soft skin and silky wetness, and now she was wrapping her leg around him, pulling him even closer. Her back was pressed against the warm summer stone of the wall, and he wondered vaguely if it was hurting her.

“Phryne…”

“No, Jack.” She sounded wrecked, her whisper ragged and her hands never leaving him. “Just…be quick.”

He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. “Patience, Miss Fisher.”

“Jack!” She nudged her hips against his groin, a warning of sorts, and fire flared in his belly. He had never been able to refuse her. Not when she was like this. _Wanton._ Before, he had never associated that word with Phryne Fisher. Graceful, yes, and elegant. Always stunning. Always inviting. But this was a different Phryne, and it ripped him open.

She reached a hand up to her face to take off her mask, midnight blue and sparkling like her dress. It only covered her eyes. He had never attended a masked ball before - it wasn’t the kind of thing he usually got invited to - and he had been totally unprepared for the effect it would have on him, the mystery and the thrill of not being able to see most of her face.

“Leave it on.”

She stilled then, and he wondered if he had gone too far. But this was Phryne. He should have known better.

“Like it, Jack?” The purr in her voice was unmistakeable, the slow creeping of a smile around the corners of her mouth irresistible, and he felt a deep groan leave his lips. She would store that information for another time, for more leisurely exploration, he knew she would. And he would look forward to it. Now, though, was not the time. Her hands had left her face and were swiftly working his belt, and she was filling him. Her scent, her skin, her lips. For once, his mind wasn’t telling him it was wrong.

He wanted so much more, and he would take it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title, of course, comes from Romeo & Juliet (Act 1, scene 5) ;).


	13. Sugar and Spice

She felt it brewing. A low rumble in the pit of her stomach that threatened to burst into a fully-fledged growl at any moment; one that would pierce her layers of clothing and echo all around the office, shattering the air of quiet concentration that had settled as they sifted through folders of evidence. She placed one hand over her stomach, took a deep breath in. All in vain.

“Hungry, Miss Fisher?”

“You had me out of bed and at that crime scene so early, Inspector, I didn’t even have time for breakfast.”

She sensed rather than saw the roll of his eyes, but the sound of his desk drawer opening and the promising clink of a biscuit tin made her look hopefully up.

“Here.” He pushed the tin towards her over the desk, and she peered in. Even the smell made her mouth water. Sweet and delicious and substantial, too, the kind of biscuit that demanded to be properly enjoyed, not nibbled around the edges. And so she took a large bite, a soft hum of pleasure escaping her as she settled back to savour it. The evidence would still be there when she finished.

“I never put you down for a chocolate and coconut kind of man, Jack.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Miss Fisher.” He reached in for one himself, and she smirked.

“Is that a challenge?

“If you want it to be.”

She leaned back in her chair, watching him appraisingly, the hint of a smile still playing around her lips. Had he not learned by now that he had just waved a red rag at a bull?

Of course he had, she thought, watching him eat. His eyes were on the paperwork, but his attention was definitely divided between her and the biscuit. For once, she was willing to share, but still….

“Oat and raisin.”

“Excuse me?” He looked up mid-mouthful, blinking.

“Your favourite flavour. A lot like you, in fact.” He raised one eyebrow, chewed, swallowed, and she left her chair to perch on her favourite corner of his desk. Not only was it closer to him, but it gave her prime access to the tin. “Reserved. Quiet. Dependable.” He snorted. “But with a lot hidden underneath. A hint of spice. Cinnamon, maybe, or nutmeg…” She reached to brush a crumb from his shirt, and her hand lingered. She could feel his heartbeat, and she knew her voice would be husky when she continued. “The kind of spice that teases the tip of your tongue and then disappears, leaving you wondering if it was really there or not, so you go back for another bite”.

She watched his Adam’s apple bob, felt his intake of breath under her hand, watched his eyebrow quirk at his half-eaten biscuit.

“And yours?”

She smiled, letting her hand slip from his chest and deliberately reaching across him for the tin.

“You’re a detective, Inspector. I’m sure you can work it out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone has any ideas on what Phryne's favourite biscuit is, drop it in the comments. Can't promise another chapter out of it, but it's always good to know 😂


	14. An Ever-Fixed Mark?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Fire_Sign, and the prompt “lipstick on a collar”, and also for whopooh and the prompt “Phrack in a relationship and pretending not to be”. Hope you two don’t mind sharing ;).

Phryne Fisher could drive like the wind. Or a lunatic, depending on who you asked. The church clock was chiming as she pulled up in the Hispano, an ungodly early hour but a mere twenty minutes after she had left Wardlow, and she was gratified - although not surprised - to find that she had arrived before Jack. He had left at the same time as her, of course, in his own car. He obviously didn’t know the shortcuts that she did.

“Morning, Hugh.”

“Morning, Miss…ah, Miss, please be careful…the Inspector….”

The young constable’s plea went unheeded as Phryne delicately stepped around the prone body and pulled back the sheet covering it. 

“The Inspector isn’t here yet?” She hoped Hugh didn’t notice her smirk as she gently probed the woman’s neck, turning her head this way and that.

“No, Miss, although he will be any minute and…”

“Slight bruising to the neck”, Phryne murmured. “Swelling around the lips…”

Before she could examine the scene any further, she hard the dulcet tones of Jack’s police car pulling in behind the Hispano. As his footsteps crunched on the gravel path, she knew without looking that he would be huffed, annoyed that she had arrived before him, and - dear God, she hoped - still a little dishevelled from the passionate, lingering kiss that she had subjected him to in the hallway right before they left. 

She wondered if Hugh would notice.

“On your way home or on your way out, Miss Fisher?”

_Keeping up appearances._ The pretence - the secrecy, the sneaking around - hadn’t yet lost its little thrill, and Phryne drew herself up to her feet, preparing herself for some fun. But she didn’t get a chance to answer him before Hugh, his cheeks turning a beetroot shade of red, lifted a tentative hand towards Jack’s shirt collar, just visible under his jacket.

“Sir, you….” He cleared his throat, and pointed more firmly.

“Yes, Collins?”

Phryne followed the finger, and blinked. _Ooops._

“You have…something…right there…”

“What?”

“I think Constable Collins is trying to tell you that you have lipstick on your collar, Inspector.”

His eyes said the thousand, mostly unrepeatable, words that his lips could not, but Phryne struggled to contain her laughter. She genuinely didn’t know how it had happened. She could have sworn all she had kissed was his mouth….but then, with Jack, she had a tendency to lose track of things.

“It seems I wasn’t the only one on my way home after…uh…a long night?”

“You don’t have the monopoly, Miss Fisher.” He gathered himself quickly, she had to give him that, but she felt him stiffen as she stepped closer, pulling a white handkerchief out of her purse.

“There”. Her hands gently dabbed at the lipstick as she risked a quick glance. His eyes had softened, and she wished she could leave it there, a mark of what she had done to him. But she couldn’t. Not yet.

“All gone.”

 

 


	15. The Colour of Magic

Jack Robinson had never considered himself much of an artist. Life was life, some of it beautiful, some of it not. Black and white and shades of grey. His garden had been the only exception, the single splash of pale pastels in his carefully ordered world, and he had been content with that. Then he had met Phryne Fisher.

She had burst into his life, bringing with her all the colours of the rainbow and daubing the walls of his existence with every shade he could imagine. Black and white and shades of grey seemed unknown to her, except in her carefully-chosen, superbly-styled wardrobe, and always there was colour to brighten them up. A jaunty hat, a scarf, a pair of sparkling earrings.

If he had to choose only one colour for her, though, it would be red. Passion. Sensuality and pleasure, strength and tenacity. She exuded them all. It enthralled him, the same as he knew it enthralled most men - and women - she met, but he had never tried to match it, never pushed himself to her level. He knew he was a different colour entirely. Since he had known her, he had come to realise that he had the calmness and patience of a sea-shade of blue. She had told him as much herself, when she said that she saw the Pacific in him, the depth of an ocean in his eyes and his heart.

He had thought about it often since then; the merging of the brightest, most vibrant red with the deepest shade of blue. He wondered what kind of magical shade of purple it would create. Sometimes he thought that she wondered too, but he hadn’t dared to test his intuition and cross that line. Neither, yet had she. Instead, he contented himself with growing bellflowers and clematis, each blazing flower a reminder that he would never again live his life in black and white and shades of grey.


	16. Quiet Passions

_“I see a very careful man, who professes to be cynical in the face of mysteries he can’t explain, and who claims to have no passions in spite of a heart that runs as deep as the Pacific Ocean.”_

Her fingers felt cool, milky smooth against his palm. Her eyes, though, were hot; a deep, sensual burn rather than the sparkling green flames that he sometimes saw, and her voice had lost its teasing lilt. She looked a little unsure. As if, he thought, she had tentatively given him a gift that she wasn’t sure he’d like. He thought about making a joke, but for some reason he wasn’t really in the mood to lighten the charged atmosphere. Perhaps it was the talk of psychics and tarot and seances. 

Instead, he flipped their hands so that it was her palm held in his.

“And I see a reckless woman, full of passions, who claims to not take anything seriously and yet cares for her friends like her own family.” He paused. Her eyes were fixed on their hands, but he knew she was very aware of his gaze. “A woman who can’t play croquet to save her life, but whose eyes hold the entire Pacific Ocean in a single drop.”

The parlour was silent. He could hear her breathing, almost in time with his own, and he was surprised that all he felt was a deep calmness. The world always righted itself , albeit in a slightly topsy-turvy way, when he was with Phryne Fisher. And if this was all he ever got - midnight, candlelight, and her hand in his - then he still considered himself a very lucky man. 

“Not bad, Inspector.” Her voice was husky.

“Likewise.” He let one hand slide from hers, and reached over to pick up first her martini to hand to her, and then his own. She took two sips in quick succession. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn her lips were trembling against the glass. “You did get one thing wrong, though.”

“Oh?”

“I never claimed to have no passions.” He took a sip himself, letting the alcohol burn slowly down his throat. “I simply said I wasn’t planning on pursuing them.”

Her eyebrow quirked. “In which case I take it you weren’t talking about the sandwiches.”

“No.” He smiled then, something else that felt so natural these evenings in her parlour. “Those I have no qualms about pursuing.”

“Then what makes you hesitate about other things?”

Her eyes lifted from her drink, and he saw it. The ocean in a drop, deep enough for him to drown in, and he replied quietly, “I never was a particularly strong swimmer, Miss Fisher.”

She nodded, slowly. They finished their drinks in silence, and it was only when he stood up to leave that she spoke.

“The ocean can carry you to incredible places, Jack. You just have to let go and trust the current.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came from a discussion on instagram over the series 2 episode Death Comes Knocking, and the scene involving Jack, Mrs Bolkonsky, and the now-infamous ham, cheese & mustard pickle sandwiches ;) - and exactly how much of that conversation Phryne overheard and what she thought of it.


	17. A Countryside Drive

“Oops!”

Phryne spluttered with laughter as Jack floored the accelerator, muttering an obscenity under his breath that would have made a Melbourne docker proud. The road was narrow but straight, and he had pulled over to the side far enough that a car could get past - hopefully without the driver seeing what they were doing. They just hadn’t bargained on a tractor.

“At least we broke up his journey.”

He shot her a glance out of the corner of his eye, and she laughed as his mouth broke into a smile. A genuine smile that started with his eyes and spread over his whole face; rare back in Australia but surprisingly common, it seemed, under the English summer sun. Here, he was Jack. His shirt collar lay open, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, every tendon and tanned muscle outlined as he drove. There wasn’t much trace of her reserved Detective Inspector, and she had to admit, much as she loved that man - and she could admit that, now - she was also falling rather hard for this.

“Are you ok?”

Phryne glanced behind at the rapidly receding tractor and then down at herself, considering the question with a smirk. Her hat was somewhere down by her feet. Her skirt was bunched up around her thighs, and she counted two buttons on her blouse that still barely held together. Was she ok?

“No.” She shook her head, wriggling in her seat, trying in vain to soothe the aching throb between her thighs. “You’re too good at that.”

“My apologies.” He kept his eyes fixed on the road, but she could see the laughter in them. “I’ll remember that next time.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He slowed as the road took a couple of sharp bends, the high hedgerows either side making it impossible to see if anything was coming towards them. “You could finish it yourself.”

She looked over at him, her eyes wide, unsure of whether she had heard him correctly over the soft purr of the car engine. Or maybe it was the unseasonable heat and heavy fragrance of May blossom that was going to her head.

“I could….” She spoke slowly, and he glanced at her. His hands stayed on the steering wheel, but his eyes were dark and hot. She hadn’t misheard. Desire flooded through her, astonishment at this new side to the Jack she had thought she knew, and delight at the discovery. If it was possible, she thought, she had just fallen a little bit more.

“I’m not sure I trust you not to crash the car.”

He acknowledged it with a smirk, and she considered. Did she want to, here and now? Or did she want to torture them both a little by waiting until they reached the cottage, and she could…

She leaned over to whisper in his ear, and his hands gripped the wheel tighter.

“I thought you didn’t want me to crash the car?”

 

 


	18. Shadows

She found him underneath the magnolia tree, as he had known she would. The summer evening was casting a soft glow over his garden, and in her shimmering cream dress, haloed by the dusky light, she looked like an angel. He supposed, in a way, that she was. An angel who didn’t speak, and who didn’t need to ask. An angel who sat beside him, holding his hand.

Usually, this kind of mood came from a different kind of memory. He would lie awake, shadows of guns and shells and the dead that the hadn’t been able to save tangling in his mind, the taste of paranoia and fear as fresh in his mouth as it had been then; but then they both had those kinds of nights. She would dance it away, he would sit with it for a while. Sometimes they would compromise and share their demons over a bottle of whisky. Tonight, though, there was no war for either of them. Tonight was the summer solstice, and their demons were their own.

“We don’t need to go, Jack.”

He turned to her, his thumb stroking the palm of her hand where it lay in his. 

“It’s your birthday, Phryne.” He smiled. “And we don’t just celebrate for you any more, remember?”

She nodded, squeezed his hand gently. He had told her once that she owed it to Janey to keep living life to the hilt; once a year, on her birthday, he always made sure to remind her of that. It had, between the two of them, become Janey’s birthday too.

“But it’s not just me, Jack.” Her voice was soft, as soft as her hand, and he sighed. It was true. She wasn’t the only one who found this day difficult, not any more. “If you’d rather stay here, I understand. Truly.”

Tonight, his memories were of a different kind of battlefield. A sense of guilt and shame always lingered but occasionally hit him with full force, and he sometimes wondered: had he really stood up in the courtroom five years ago and lied? It was ironic, really. He had sworn, in front of a judge, that he wanted to be with another woman in order to give Rosie the divorce she wanted, and yet he was the one who had been stubbornly, painfully faithful, with his body at least. And therein lay the rub. He had wanted Phryne even then, to the point where his words and desires and actions had mixed in his mind and he had ended up feeling like the world’s biggest fraud.

But he couldn’t regret it, not when he looked at what he had now. 

“No, love.” He could see her better now that the sun was dipping, and he knew he didn’t want to leave her side. “I want to celebrate with you. And besides…” He reached over and brushed her cheek. “I need you to remind me not to be afraid of shadows.”

 

 


	19. An Invitation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For TorieGirl, and the prompt "Would you care to join me?" :).

Jack Robinson rarely swore. He was known throughout the force, not just for his good instincts, dedication to the job and excellent results, but also for being unflappable. His voice was hardly ever raised, and his use of language was more than respectable. In this instance, though, with Phryne Fisher underneath him and the telephone ringing off the hook in the hallway, it seemed justified.

“Damn, bugger and….”

Phryne burst out laughing, covering his lips with the finger that had been working its way down his naked back. “Go.” She wriggled underneath him, letting him know that she would be waiting for him when he returned. “It might be the station.”

“ _Will_ be the station,” Jack corrected her with a groan. “No one else calls, not even my mother.”

“Then you’d better answer.”

He felt her eyes on him as he half-walked, half-jogged to the telephone, closing his eyes against the goosebumps prickling his back. She was finally here. Finally home. Finally with him, kissing him, making love with him. He had never had any doubt that being with Phryne would be incredible, but after so many months of telegrams and letters, pent-up frustration leaking into every word, it had been more than incredible. _Incredible_ was pathetically inadequate. Now he wanted nothing more than to lie with her all afternoon in his home, cosy on the rug in front of the fire, drinking the tea and eating the shortbread she had brought back from England and soaking her in, all of her. Every last inch. He knew, though, before he even answered the telephone, that it would have to wait.

The conversation was a short one, and he felt a tug in his gut as he slowly replaced the receiver and turned back to the warmth.

“So tell me - burglary, violent affray or murder?”

Dammit, she had put his shirt on. And nothing else. He swallowed hard, and nodded as he crossed to the rug. She sat with her knees pulled up, her eyes sparkling, her cheeks still slightly flushed, and he thought he had never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

“It seems the criminal underworld are having a party to celebrate your return.”

“Well, I suppose I should be flattered.”

He nodded, leaning over to let his lips graze her jawline. It was too inviting. “It’s very bad manners not to turn up to your own party.”

“It is”, Phryne smirked, before becoming serious. “But I’ll only come if you want me to, Jack. If you’d rather I stayed here…”

He shook his head, drawing himself back up onto his knees and reaching out a hand. Of course he wanted her with him. She was his partner. He had missed her, and now he never wanted her to leave.

“Would you care to join me, Miss Fisher?”

She nodded, squeezing his fingers firmly. “Thank you, Inspector”. She knew, he thought, and he was glad. “I believe I would.”


	20. Party Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation (fairly obviously) of S2E13 Murder Under The Mistletoe ;).

“Charades!”

Raucous groans rose from all around the parlour, and Mac shook her head resolutely, waving her whisky glass. “I’m not drunk enough for that. Next?”

“Carol singing!” Bert declared, holding onto the mantelpiece for support. “ _While shepherds washed their socks by night, all seated round the tub…”_ But he was drowned out by another chorus of groans, and had to duck as Cec threw a stocking at him.

“Hide and seek?” It was Jane, her mischievous eyes flicking towards Phryne and Jack. “Please?”

“Best idea anyone’s had all night.”

It was, of course, Phryne who had to hide, and as she ducked behind a shelf in the pantry - not the most ingenious of places, but it would do - she could hear Jane counting loudly. _Seventy five, seventy six_ …she had a few minutes, at least. It was quieter in here. Away from the noise and gaiety of the parlour, a gaiety which she had had to force for the last hour, his voice echoed clearly in her head.

_Hemi-parasitic, of the genus viscum…._

How that had made her stomach flip and the rest of her body melt, heaven only knew, but she had wanted to kiss him and mistletoe be damned. In fact, she had never wanted anything so badly in her life. She knew it showed. If it hadn’t she wouldn’t be here, crouched down behind a cold ham and a plate of sliced Christmas cake; Jane could be remarkably perceptive at times. What were the chances, though, of it being Jack who found her, and not a very drunken Bert?

_One hundred - coming ready or not!_

Despite herself, she felt a grin sneak across her face, the old childish excitement flooding back and this time mixed with a hint of something decidedly more adult. She had never considered the parlour. It was the one place she had never imagined their first kiss. Of course, it was a kiss she might yet not get, but there was no harm in….

“Sneaking extra pudding?”

“That was quick, even for you.” She accepted his hand to stand up; her knees suddenly weren’t what they should be. His fingers were warm against hers, and they lingered. For far too long, and not long enough.

“Jane’s suggestion. I think she sent Bert outside and Hugh upstairs.”

“That girl is a genius.”

“So, Miss Fisher.” He paused, and she could feel his warmth. It drew her closer until she was pressed against him in the small space, his arm slipping naturally around her waist to hold her there. “If your kisses can’t be compelled by parasitic greenery, then….”

“Look up, Jack.” He did so, and she saw the briefest hint of a smile. “Why do you think I hid in here in the first place?”

“Silly me.” He lowered his head to brush his lips against hers, teasing them both, and the world started to crumble into beautiful, irreparable pieces. “I just thought you were hungry.”


	21. Courtship

“Now that we have a moment…tell me.” Margaret sipped her tea and gestured for Phryne to sit down and join her. “How did he court you?”

“Mother!” Phryne rolled her eyes, but plopped down on a chair anyway and allowed her mother to pour her a cup. “It’s 1930!”

“And I’m your mother. I would still be asking you the same question if it was 2030.” Margaret smiled fondly. “So?”

“You mean besides following me to London on a whim?” Phryne’s gaze softened and shifted, across the kitchen to the open parlour door. It still felt unreal. 

“Besides that.”

“He took me for breakfast.”

She remembered it so clearly. She hadn’t been able to sleep, and at 5am had given up and gone for a walk instead. The foreshore had appealed. She had felt like hearing the crash of the waves and the gulls crying for the sunrise; she had never expected to see him there, walking off his own sleepless night barefoot in the sand. They had walked together, and talked. She had taken off her shoes and let the sand slip through her toes like time through an hourglass, and she had never felt so awake and alive. Two hours later, he had, rather shyly, invited her for breakfast at one of the shorefront cafés.

“Eggs, toast and kippers.” Phryne sipped her tea. “And then he bet that I wouldn’t be up early enough to repeat the experience the following week.”

Margaret raised her eyebrows over her china teacup.

“He lost.”

“Well.” Margaret looked impressed. “He must be something special if you fell for kippers.”

“He is,” Phryne murmured, and turned her attention to her tea, ignoring her mother’s penetrating gaze. She didn’t think she could explain how much she had started to look forward to those mornings on the beach, work permitting for both of them and despite the early hour; sometimes it was her extra treat after a night out, to walk by the sea with Jack on her way home. They didn’t always have breakfast and they never talked about cases, saving those for the nightcaps in her parlour. Often they didn’t talk at all, but just linked arms and strolled, watching the dawn break over the waves, sharing the intimacy of feeling like the only two people in the world to see it.

She had gone to the foreshore the morning of her departure, hoping he would be there but knowing he would not. Work, he had said. She had watched the fiery colours of sunrise by herself; afterwards she had been both grateful and slightly wistful, knowing that if he had kissed her there instead she never would have found it in her to leave. He later admitted that he had stayed away for precisely that reason. He had, though, promised her another sunrise walk when they returned. He had promised her breakfast. And he had promised, this time, to kiss her on the beach with their feet in the waves.


	22. Happiness

She hadn’t asked him to join her in the bath. He hadn’t even been home when she ran the water herself, pouring in a generous amount of scented oil and turning the tap to scalding. It was the middle of June, and she was cold. She was tired. Her breasts hurt, and her belly ached. She wanted nothing more than to sink down and let the steam wash over her forever. And yet here he was.

She fit between his legs perfectly, she noticed. A bathtub made for two. She could feel his skin rubbing against hers, the coarse hairs on his chest a stark contrast to her own milky smooth body,and she felt arousal prickling despite her discomfort. It was always that way with him. Always easy. He had made her relentless in her desire for him, and only him - still a revelation, sometimes. But today, she couldn’t.

“Jack, I…”

“Shh, love.” He soothed her, bringing his hands around to gently cup her breasts. They felt swollen and heavy to her, resting in his palms, and she leaned her head back against his neck. She knew that he understood. He had, after all, been married for years. He was well used to the ebb and flow of women’s bodies. It was her who was unsure, still a little shy, almost, at allowing him to comfort her, to thoroughly love her and look after her. “It’ll pass.”

“I know.”

They had time for this now, she reminded herself, and it still felt like a luxury. Having him all to herself, knowing that neither of them was going anywhere, exploring and discovering and tending to each other in different ways that she had never before experienced. No man had ever got beyond her boudoir before, and it still felt strangely delicious.

It felt like happiness.


	23. Trade-Off

Phryne Fisher had given Jack Robinson more than his fair share of headaches. In the early days of their partnership, he had felt a faint throbbing around his temples every time she appeared at one of his crime scenes, every time she whirled into his carefully ordered office and whirled out again, and as they had grown closer so the headaches had grown worse. He had learned to distinguish between them. There were the champagne and cocktail headaches that bubbled almost pleasantly through his whole body the morning after - he had grown quite fond of those. There was the anxious, angry pounding that he felt whenever she did something dangerous or reckless; pounding that had almost burst into a fully-fledged migraine when he thought she had finally gone too far and killed herself in a racing car. And the later pain, when he realised how he felt about her…well. Best not to dwell on that.

Now, though, he was experiencing a new kind of headache. He told himself it was a privilege, one that he had never expected to have, but it didn’t make the discomfort any less. It was the kind of headache that came when she was standing in front of him, wrapped seductively in nothing but a black-and-cream silk robe, telling him that the quiet evening he had planned with her and Rilke in front of the fire wasn’t going to happen. 

“Phryne, love…”

“I know you hate dinner parties.” She came and straddled his lap, her body warm and soft under the robe, and he closed his eyes. “And I wouldn’t ask, but Guy and Isabella are going to be there and I don’t think I can face them on my own.”

Her lips teased his, lightly cajoling and soothing, and he groaned.

“Do you have to go?”

“If I want my aunt to ever speak to me again, then yes.” Her hand slipped down to his collarbone. “Although on second thoughts…”

“That’s not such a bad idea?”

She giggled, and he took advantage of it to slip one hand inside the robe, instantly turning her laughter into a gasp as his cool fingers found her breast.

“Why, did you have something else in mind?” Her voice was throaty, soft, and his only answer was to trail one finger slowly down over her stomach, her skin smooth and responsive under his touch.

“Maybe we can compromise?” Her body was pleading with his hand for more, and he nodded.

“Half and half?”

“Dinner then straight home.”

He let her kiss him properly then, her lips full of promise and anticipation, and he felt warm desire flare and settle in his belly. He would have gone with her all evening, of course. His head had, figuratively speaking, suffered far worse. But this…this was the kind of ache that he craved, over and over again, and it was worth one to get the other. Always, he thought, it was worth it.


	24. Simple Pleasures

She had stepped off the ship and into a whirlwind - a small party on the docks to greet her, full of love and smiles and relief that she was home safely. She hadn’t planned it. For once, she had wanted a quieter sort of homecoming. There was only one face that she had scanned for in the crowds, and she had found it; behind the others, content to stand and watch with that half-smile of his that she had so desperately missed. In amongst the hugs and kisses and questions and general excitement, her eyes had found his and held on.

She had brought gifts, of course, taking advantage of travelling back by sea rather than in her cramped little plane. A bottle of the finest Scotch whisky for Mac. Silks from her stop in Aden for Dot, and some nursery toys from Hamley’s “Joy Emporium” for whatever the growing bump turned out to be. She had stocked up on her Aunt Prudence’s favourite sweets from Harrods, and taken great delight in visiting the bookstores for Jane, knowing that her adopted daughter would be sensible enough to take Lady Chatterley and her lover on their literary merits and not on the gossip and scandal. For Mr Butler, she had spent a happy afternoon in Naples stocking up on the finest Italian cured meats, oils and herbs, including a huge glass bottle of olive oil which baffled Dot completely ( _“For softening earwax, Miss?”)._ She had even visited Savile Row for Bert and Cec, instructing the tailor firmly to leave his label off the shirts. 

But Jack had presented her with a problem. Because, really, what were you supposed to buy for the man who you wanted to give everything to?

She had tried books, and cufflinks, and food, and jumpers. She had tried typical London, and she had tried exotic. She had picked up things, and put them back, bought them and then changed her mind. In the end, she was left with only one thing that she really wanted to give him.

She had to wait until the following morning, when he was rather shyly dressing for work in her boudoir. She knew he was a little uncomfortable, and a little unsure, but she hadn’t been able to resist lying there and watching him, letting her eyes take their fill after the rest of her had been well and truly sated. Eventually, though, she took over from him. Her silk robe brushed the crisp cotton of his shirt as she wrapped the tie around his neck, slowly twisting the deep ocean-blue silk into a perfect knot at the base of his throat, and she smiled. It was silly, she knew; as a gift, it was nothing special. Just a normal tie, the colour of which had reminded her vividly of his eyes. And this, such a simple, normal, intimate thing to do. Something that she hadn’t realised she wanted, until now. 

 


	25. Undone

“You did what?”

His voice was a murmur into her ear as she lay beneath him, his lips teasing her skin and his fingers roaming, taking their fill wherever they could. There wasn’t much to stop them. Clothes had mostly been dispensed with. He could feel her breath coming raggedly against him as her hands did their own exploration; time had collapsed into a sensual, beautiful jumble of lips and flesh and kisses and moans. This, with Phryne, was an end in itself. He never wanted it to stop, but she had spoken, her voice a cracked whisper, and he hadn’t quite caught what she said.

“I…we need to stop, Jack.”

He did, immediately, his hands stilling and his brow furrowing as he pushed himself up slightly to look down at her.

“Is everything alright?” Possibilities ran through his mind - perhaps he had misread it, although he didn’t think so, not judging from the sight and feel of her underneath him. Perhaps… “Phryne?” She looked as if she was about to cry.

“I left it in London!”

Her voice came out as a raspy wail, and he blinked. “Left what in London?”

“My…uh…”

Oh.

“Your… _device?”_

She nodded miserably, her fingers trailing from his back. “I only just thought of it, I wasn’t thinking straight before, and… _fuck!” S_ he glared up at him, her face a mixture of frustration and annoyance and raw need, and she shifted her hips a little, still longing for his touch. “I didn’t exactly plan this.”

None of it, Jack thought, had been planned. He hadn’t planned to follow her, not until her Aunt Prudence had appeared at City South one morning brandishing a one-way ticket on the next steamer to Southampton. He hadn’t planned to arrive on her London doorstep, only to be told by the sympathetic butler that she was away for the week in Devon. He hadn’t planned on the extra train journey and nerve-wracking taxi drive to the remote country house. He hadn’t even planned on this when he got there.

He had thought about it, of course. Dreamed about it. Fantasised about it. But not planned it. His arrival had been a complete surprise. Even so…and he was wondering how to put it delicately…

“You never leave that behind.”

She raised her eyebrows, but managed to huff out a laugh. “Just in case? I haven’t done that for a long time, Jack.” Her gaze softened, and suddenly she looked vulnerable. Naked in a way that she hadn’t before. “Not since I realised…well. They weren’t you, so I wasn’t interested.”

Her admission startled him. Shocked him. He gazed down at her, this beautiful woman, and he felt his world crack wide open.

“Do you want to stop?” His voice was husky, and she shook her head vehemently. 

“No.”

“Then don’t worry about it, love.” He kissed her, long and deep, running one hand slowly up the inside of her thigh. “There are other ways.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is an expanded / extended (*ahem*) version of this in the works. Blame the devils / angels in disguise who are organising the February smut challenge 😂 - it'll be posted sometime next month. If, you know, you're interested..;)


	26. Second Time Around

“Are you absolutely sure?”

He hovered by the door, one foot in the hallway and one foot on the step. He looked unsure, nervous. The cab had pulled up five minutes ago to take him to the station; if he hovered much longer he would miss his train. With a little smile, Phryne realised that a part of him was wanting exactly that.

“Of course”. She gently rested one hand on the lapel of his jacket and adjusted his tie with the other, hoping to reassure him with touch even though her voice wasn’t as strong as it could have been. “She needs you.”

“She just needs a shoulder to cry on and someone to do the practical stuff for a day. I’m sure her brother…”

“No, Jack, she needs you.” She looked up at him, her eyes teasing him a little. `’The man who always does the right thing. The noble thing.”

He smiled, then, at their shared memory; a soft, intimate smile. ‘Not always, Mrs Robinson.” He paused, his finger lightly tracing her cheekbone, committing every detail. “You know I want to ask you why you’re being so understanding about this.”

It was a good question, and she only had one answer.

“Because you’re you, Jack.” She mimicked his touch, running her own finger over his cheek and down the strong jawline to the corner of his mouth; he turned his head and pressed his lips to her palm. “Because you wouldn’t think much of yourself if you didn’t. You do always do the right thing, whether you like it or not. And because…” She paused, her eyes flicking to the delicate silver ring that adorned her finger, sparkling against the dark wool of his coat. “I know that you would do the same for me. If we were divorced and I needed you.”

He looked at her for a long moment, ignoring the impatient blast that came from the cab’s horn - Cec was obviously keeping an eye on the time, even if they weren’t - before leaning in close and pressing his lips to her forehead. She really was an incredible woman, and he murmured it, whispering it against her skin so that only she could hear.

“Go.” She smiled, fiddled with his tie again. “Just make sure you come back.”

As he turned from the door - _their_ front door, he reminded himself, he thought that Rosie had been right, all that time ago. It really was very different the second time around.


	27. Modern Art

“I have something for you.”

Her smile was wide, excited like a child’s. She hadn’t planned on it, not this soon; she had intended to save it for Christmas. But he had just finished a rough case. She had missed him, and besides, she didn’t need an occasion anymore. He was all hers to spoil whenever she wanted.

“For me?” He put down his book and took the package a little suspiciously; she saw his brain ticking over, trying to work out what important date he had missed. “It’s not my birthday.”

“No, I know.”

“And…” A look of slight panic crossed his face, and she smirked.

“Not an anniversary either. You haven’t been holed up in the station _that_ long.”

Relief flooded his body. “Feels like it.”

“I know.” Her face softened, and she ran a hand through his curls. But his attention was taken with the package. It was obvious, she thought, what it was. Only a painting would be that size and that shape, and the simple frame she had chosen could be felt through the wrapping. But he didn’t yet know what the painting was, and she felt her stomach bubble a little. God, she hoped he liked it. She hoped….

“Phryne…” He had slipped it out of the paper, and she saw his jaw working. Lost for words.

“I had intended it for Christmas, but… Do you like it?” She suddenly felt nervous, almost shy, until he turned his face up to her and she saw it shining in his eyes.

“It’s you.” He returned his gaze to the painting. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s me,” she echoed, looking at the painting properly for the first time. She had made sure all the details of the pose were the same. Her hair had changed, of course. Her body was a little softer, a little rounder in places. The setting - thank God - was different, and the artist this time was one of her trusted acquaintances who, she knew, wasn’t of the inclination to try anything other than fancy paintwork. But it was unmistakably her, draped over the divan, a moment captured again in oil on canvas.

She hadn’t been able to bring herself to gift him the original, even though she knew he loved it. Too many memories, and too much of an old version of her that she wasn’t sure she wanted to bring into this new life they were creating. But this…this was her, as she was now. For him, and the spot on the wall above his bed that had been empty for far too long.

“But when did you…”

She raised one eyebrow, and waited until his brow cleared and he reached up for her, growling, pulling her down for a rough kiss, and she squealed in delight.

“All those Monday afternoons?”

“Yes.” She nodded, sinking down into his lap, and he chuckled against her throat.

“I knew you weren’t really playing bridge.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to warn you in advance - there may actually be 32 chapters to this rather than 31. Apparently Phryne and Jack aren't quite done with this like they assured me they would be. But I'm assuming that you won't mind the Phrack slipping into February too, or maybe getting two chapters on the last day of January...😂


	28. A Good Waltz

He loved to watch her dance. After so many years, so many firsts, so much life lived that he had never even dreamed of, he still loved that almost more than anything. Her whole body was a dance, every move she made choreographed to the cadence of music that was entirely her own. Being her lover, he had realised, meant sharing the dance; tricky, to start with, when his senses picked up only snatches of melody, a couple of bars of rhythm. But she taught him and he learned, both of them willing and eager, and soon they were dancing together, the music adapting to the slow and close waltzes that they did best of all. The Charleston, he decided early on, he would leave to others.

It had surprised him to find that he loved to watch her dance with other men too. He could observe, then, with his eyes rather than his hands; soaking in every twist and turn and curve and line of her body, storing it for when he was back in her arms and he would surprise her with a hint of something new, something that his body had imagined from what his eyes had seen. He never tried to imitate. She loved him so thoroughly as he was that he never felt the need; he still didn’t understand it, even now, but he never questioned it. She had told him once that it must be genetic. Her mother, after all, had lost all reason when she was waltzed. Was that her favourite dance, he wondered, was that why she had chosen him, returned to him, kept him over all the other men with their fancy footwork? Was that the rhythm that her body ultimately preferred, the steady, lilting one-two-three that kept her close to him, spinning gently through days and nights and the spaces in between?

His favourite, though, was not to watch her but to dance with her, alone by candlelight in her parlour, not even with a recognisable movement but a gentle swaying with barely a breath between them. He could hear her music clearly then, and he treasured every note for the gift that it was. He knew what it meant to her to share it. One day, he would be able to show her that he had kept each one, safe and precious and beloved, but until then he trusted that she knew. They were, after all, dancing to the same waltz.


	29. Seven Deadly Sins

“So, Captain Courageous is entrusting Mata Hari with another secret mission?”

He could have bitten his tongue off as soon as he said the words. He knew what she would do with them; he saw Mac smirk out of the corner of his eye and realised it was coming. He deserved it, he thought, and closed his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable.

“Jack Robinson, if I didn’t know better I’d say you were jealous.”

Her eyes were flashing fire; a defence, he knew, against the brittle atmosphere that had developed between them ever since the call-out to the airfield. He also knew that she had every right to sleep with whomever she chose, and that she would defend _that_ until her dying day. The fact, he thought sourly, that Compton was an ass who barely respected the boundary between man and gorilla was obviously not…

Damn.

Jack Robinson had never thought of himself as a sinful man before. But now that he stopped and considered it, he could count quite a few.

Envy. Obviously.

Wrath - because he wanted nothing more right now than to string Compton up by the pompous medals he plastered all over that uniform of his and leave him to rot on the airfield fence.

Pride - he had enough of that to never admit his jealousy and anger to anyone, least of all Phryne.

Greed - well, if it was being greedy to want her all to himself then yes, he was guilty of that too.

He braved a look at her, and swallowed. Blue-green eyes that were so alive, beautiful even filled with defensive fury. Red lips that he had longed so often to kiss, even, or perhaps especially, when they pouted like that. Skin that he already knew would feel soft under his fingers and… and there was another one staring him in the face.

Lust. Didn’t they say that was the worst one?

“I’m certainly not jealous. I’m simply asking a question.”

It was a standoff, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Mac flicking her eyes back and forth like a spectator at tennis. But it was Phryne who deflated first, the flames dying down in her eyes, her stance softening a little.

“Compton was a long time ago, Jack, and it wasn’t like that. Well, yes it was, but…you know what it’s like when you think life is fleeting and you might die at any moment.”

“I always feel like that when I’m with you.”

Mac’s quip worked; they both smiled. But he could see it in her eyes. She knew. And she wanted, not to fight with him anymore, but to reassure him, and he was left with that warm feeling that she so often trailed behind her; the one that he could never get enough of. He sighed. 

Gluttony. Now all he was missing was sloth. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired (fairly obviously) by Murder and the Maiden :). I promise I apologised to the gorilla.


	30. Family Planning

It couldn’t be. And yet it was.

Phryne sat on the edge of the bed - the bed that used to be hers, and was now theirs - feeling like she was in shock. Or something. She didn’t know. She was feeling everything and nothing. Disbelief, horror, terror, all mingling with a touch of elation and the mad desire to laugh and cry and be sick all at the same time, but all of those emotions seemed like they were assaulting someone else.

She had no idea what to do.

“Phryne?”

She didn’t move. That name he was calling - was it really hers? The bedroom door opened, but still she didn’t move. She couldn’t. If she didn’t move, she could hold herself together.

“Phryne, what’s wrong?”

He had sounded happy, but now his voice was full of concern as he knelt beside her legs, his hand resting lightly on top of hers, ready to move if she wanted it to. She shook her head. The movement released a single, hot tear, and his finger caught it as it slid slowly down her cheek.

“I….” She cleared her throat, trying to make her voice sound more like her own. Dammit, she was Phryne Fisher. Nothing had defeated her yet, and with that thought in mind she raised her head and tried again. The worry in his eyes almost made her freeze, and she breathed in. Breathed out. Toyed for a second with the idea of lying, and then breathed in again and dismissed it. She had never lied to him, would never lie to him.

And besides, this was as much his fault as hers.

“It seems we need to adjust our definition of family planning.”

She saw it all cross his face, just as Mac must have seen it cross hers that morning. She waited for him to say something. If she was honest, she was waiting for him to leave. This had never been part of the plan. But eventually his eyes settled - those beautiful eyes - and she saw joy. Shock, and uncertainty too. Wonder. And more love than she had ever seen one person hold.

He took her hand more firmly, bringing her to her feet, holding her up when she found she was shaking too much to stand by herself.

“Then let’s start with this.” He kissed her, thoroughly and deeply, before releasing her and cupping her face in his hands. The tears were running freely now. She didn’t care. 

“Phryne Fisher, will you and baby Fisher do me the honour of officially becoming a family?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I apologise for the tooth-rotting fluff?? ;)


	31. Break and Enter

“I can’t believe I’ve let you talk me into this.”

Phryne smirked into the darkness. He said that every time, and yet every time he was there, breaking and entering right alongside her. His whispered words were, she knew, simply a nod to his badge, and she thought rather smugly that he had come a long way in the right direction since they had started working together.

“Yes, you can. I talk you into it every time. Now, where do you suppose the stairs are?”

“Stairs in a hotel can’t be that hard to find.”

She rolled her eyes into the darkness. “The _right_ stairs. We want the laundry room, not reception.” She heard his soft footsteps behind her as she crept along the corridor, her heels almost silent on the threadbare carpet. How different it was, she thought. The public face of the grandest hotel in Melbourne, and what lay behind the scenes.

“Do you think it can be classed as breaking and entering if we didn’t actually break anything? I mean, the fire door was open…”

“You _are_ learning fast, Jack.” Her eyes, now accustomed to the gloom, had picked out a break in the corridor wall that she thought had to be the stairs. “I think this must be it….or maybe not.” She had pulled the door open to reveal, not a flight of descending stairs as she had hoped, but a chute that plummeted into darkness, and she contemplated it thoughtfully before shrugging.

“Well, I suppose it ends up in the same place.”

“No, Phryne…” But Jack’s exasperated warning came too late; she adjusted her beret, climbed in, and shot down. 

It was quick. Steep. Her stomach jumped up towards her throat as her body adjusted to the drop, and then she felt a thud, a scraping on the backs of her legs through her trousers, and she jolted to a halt in a soft pile of what she guessed were sheets. Unwashed sheets. She wrinkled her nose, but she barely had time to think about it before she heard his voice behind her.

“Phryneeeee….unnngh!”

He careered into her, his foot slamming into her knee and sending her sprawling backwards against the hatch that led into the laundry room. They both cursed at the same time, tumbling out onto the concrete floor; their combined weight had forced the hatch door open. In the darkness, she could see him sitting up, rubbing his foot with one hand and reaching for her with the other.

“Damn! Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” She began to laugh. “I didn’t expect you to follow me, that’s all.”

“Always, Miss Fisher.” She felt his smile in the darkness, a warm brush of lips on hers, before he took her hand to help her up. After all, they still had evidence to find, and not much time to find it in. “Always.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously written following a rewatch of Death at the Grand ;).


	32. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the extra chapter as promised :). I was going to post this tomorrow, but there was a little (slightly nerdy) voice in my head that said this was meant to be a January Phrack fic, so it should be finished in January...and besides, Mac is getting very annoyed that I abandoned her mid-chapter, mid-flirt, and mid-case to write this instead 😂. I should go rescue her! 
> 
> THANK YOU so much to everyone for reading, commenting, kudosing (if that's even a word), and just generally being amazing readers and writers and fellow MFMM fans. January is usually a terrible month for me - I'm a sunshine creature, I hate the cold! - but you guys made it all better ☺️❤️. See you in Smutuary! 😂

She landed at the same airfield, in a different plane, on a different kind of beautiful day. Then, the air had been light and fragrant with the beginning of spring; now the sun was heavy, sensual, lethargic after a southern summer, and a gentle breeze was rippling the grasses. She felt it, and knew she was home.

He was waiting for her, and one by one the details formed against the haze. She could see the car, in almost exactly the same place she had left it; the hat she had bought him; the long coat with the flash of red lining, a mirror of the copper tones of the landscape. Her routines of landing slipped past her in a blur. When she finally climbed down for the last time, crossing from one world into another, she turned and looked at him. Looked back at the plane one more time, and then ran.

She stopped just short of him, letting her eyes soak him up before she reached for him. Her fingers held months of missing him. They had longed for him; writing to him had simply made the ache worse. She had poured moments onto paper, writing page after page before the words floated away, trying to capture her journey for him, trying to forge a bridge across time and distance that never seemed strong enough. She had them still, tucked into a bulging envelope in the lining of her coat. The only one she had sent had been short. It had asked him to meet her here. It hadn’t asked him to come alone; that seemed like too big a request when her extended family were all anxiously awaiting her return too. And yet here he was. Alone, and kissing her like he would never let her go again.

“I should get you back.”

She buried her smile in his neck. “What did you do with them all?”

“Mr Butler and your welcome-home party.” She felt his half-smile, the one that she had missed so desperately. “Even your Aunt was put to work.”

“I had visions of you shutting them all in the cells.”

“That was the other alternative.” His arms still held her close. “A bit presumptuous, maybe…”

“No.” She shook her head, cupping his face so that she could look properly up into his eyes. Gods, she had missed those eyes too, and she smiled. Laughed. She couldn’t help it. He was here, and she kissed him again. “Can we stay here?” 

He raised one eyebrow, and she caught a mischievous flash of blue.

“Right here, Miss Fisher?”

“Why, Inspector Robinson, did you have something else in mind?”

“No.” He shook his head innocently. “But Mrs Stanley will have my guts for her next pair of garters if she’s left slicing tomatoes for much longer.”

It was, she thought, a fair point, but it was still several long, beautiful moments before she felt his arm slip from her waist.

“Home?”

She nodded.

“Home.”

 

 


End file.
